If my poetry has made you weary Sir Knight, perhaps it is best you lie down rahter then run me through with sword. Indeed, I seem to have fallen asleep and have become the prisoner of a spider who has spun a web about my good writing arm. Even my quill has been captured in this spider's mischief and intrigue.

So, Lancelot. Tell me of your kin Frotmund. Fromund was the name of my father.